


Sing, O Muse

by WildwoodQueen



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Family, Gen, M/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Muses, Mythology - Freeform, Sibling Love, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23367634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildwoodQueen/pseuds/WildwoodQueen
Summary: One-shots from the perspectives of the nine muses as they live, and sing, and dream.
Relationships: Eurydice wife of Orpheus/Orpheus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Calliope, muse of epic poetry

Calliope is the eldest of her sisters, which is a burden that she bears steadily as she lives out her immortal days, poring over pages and pages of poetry. She is the muse of epic poetry - it is her life and her calling. From the heights of her home in Mount Parnassus, she records, with passionate intensity, the stories of fiery Achilles and wily Odysseus, heroes strong and brave and so very foolish. She sings of their joys and their sorrows, living and laughing alongside them. And, in her chronicle, every mistake they ever made is laid bare, clear and open on the parchment for anyone to read. Yet she loves them, her flawed protagonists, her friends who never met her but in dreams. They live on in verse, locked in in the throes of battle, or adrift on the wine-dark sea.

In simpler times, she used to believe that if you loved stories enough, they would love you back. But Calliope is immortal, and long life has robbed her of all youthful illusions. Now, she knows that stories bite.

She had a son, once, the famous Orpheus. Before he learned to speak, she taught him how to sing, and she smiled as he hit every note perfectly. Because that was who he was: Orpheus the singer, Orpheus who could move the stones to tears with a song. Even when he was a child, his voice was so beautiful that the songbirds ceased their twittering to listen. As he grew up, he became a man whose singing was renowned far and wide. He could charm all the creatures of the forest, so he often went wandering there. That was he met his wife, a dryad named Eurydice. They were united in youthful love, and Calliope blessed them. For a while, she believed that the two could be among the rare few whom the Fates allowed to live out their days in perfect happiness, the rare few who were spared. Then, all of a sudden, tragedy struck in the form of a snake-bite. Eurydice died, and Orpheus wept, and Calliope grieved with the sorrow that only a mother can ever know. But even so, Calliope should have known the shape of stories, the way that they wriggle and writhe toward their inevitable conclusion. She should have known how his story would end. Instead, she was filled only with hope as he departed on his quest to rescue his beloved wife from the shores of death. 

With an aching heart, she remembers how Orpheus returned. Broken. For he could not change his fate. He sobbed into his mother’s lap for a long time. She stroked his hair, smoothing the tears out of him as she sang to him his childhood lullabies, the verses of the great heroes of old.

Now, Orpheus too is in the Underworld. His mortal life snapped under the weight of his grief. Calliope hopes that he is happy, at last, with his Eurydice. 

She is left with nothing but memories. Nothing but stories.


	2. Clio, muse of history

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clio searches for the truth

The nine muses are the daughters of Mnemosyne, the goddess who presides over memory. And, out of all the sisters, Clio is most like their mother. For she is the muse of history, and truth is her weapon and her shield. 

Sometimes, she laughs gently at Calliope for her embellishments. _What made the golden fleece golden? Did Helen hatch from an egg or did she not?_ But always, her sister only shakes her head in reply. For Calliope, there are many truths, pages and pages pressed upon each other with no beginning or end. Clio grimaces, as there is nothing she dislikes more than falsehoods. Her philosophy is as follows: in history, as in life, there is cause and there is effect. This is a confused and intricate web, and it is the responsibility of the historian to untangle it.

Like her sisters, Clio makes regular visits to the mortal world. Once she went to see a man named Herodotus. In the middle of the bustling festival, she floated, invisible, while the crowd gathered to hear the man recite his great work — The Histories. That day, the air was blisteringly hot, the audience squinted under the glare of the burning sun. Yet they stayed, for Herodotus had a voice that could soothe and settle the most anxious of minds. As he spoke, he began to weave a tale of the singer Arion, who, having flung himself off a ship, was rescued by a dolphin and brought to shore.

At this, Clio, unseen and unheard, cried out, “Not true! Not true!" _Beautiful, yes. Stirring and dramatic, yes. But not true!_

Her words were breath. The crowd murmured in appreciation at the wondrous tale. And Herodotus continued to tell his stories. There was some truth in them, like a diamond in the rough, glimmering beneath the layers of sand, myth and magic. But for Clio, there was only falsehood and bitter betrayal.

She returned to Mount Parnassus in a huff. Seeing her scowl and her balled fists, Clio’s eight sisters gathered around her. Ignoring their mutters of concern, she stormed past them, slamming the door of her chamber. They meant well, and she figured she could apologise later. But, for now, the muse of history had work to do.

From under her bed, she heaved out a bulky manuscript. It was riddled with ink stains and sentences crossed out. There were pages torn out, whole paragraphs had been struck through and rewritten.

This was her life’s work: a history chronicling everything that she ever knew, everything checked and proven and verified. The narrative sprawled and splintered, twisting its way through every word that had ever been spoken, every life that had ever been lived. The truths were exposed, the lies erased. She has rewritten her manuscript constantly; she is never satisfied. 

_One day_ , she told herself, _one day she will find the truth._


	3. Erato, muse of love poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erato reads some terrible poetry.

Erato does not understand Clio’s fascination with her dusty historians. Instead, she seeks out passion: pages drenched in feeling, verses brimming over with love and lust. Indeed, the muse of love poetry is no prude. 

She meets her poets deep in the night, slips into their dreams like a hand in a glove. And she watches their dreaming minds filling up with the tossing and turning of the day, a thousand thoughts boiled down into fragments: I love, you love, he/she/it loves. Words long to be together — they rearrange, mix, turn, kiss. Erato watches with delight as they give birth to phrases: lips like roses, eyes like the sun.

Tonight, she feels like she has accomplished a lot. It happened like this: 

After a fruitful visit to her poet friend Sappho, Erato realised that she still had time before sunrise. So she drifted into the dreams of a man in Athens who was trying to compose a poem. His mind was in such a state of turmoil, that Erato was tempted to conclude the visit there and then. But instead, she steeled herself, and set to work upon her duty.

“What seems to be the matter?” asked dream-Erato. She was dressed in silken robes, a lyre in her hand.

“I have no talent for poetry,” said the young man. He was barely more than a boy, pale-faced with acne dotting his forehead. “But I want to write a poem to Glykera so that she will choose me instead of that craftsman, but I have no chance because he is as handsome as Apollo and every word that I write is terrible.”

“Show me. It cannot be as bad as you say.”

He produced from thin air several sheets of parchment, and handed them to her. In dreams, you see, such things are possible.

Erato leafed through the pages, and gods, it truly was terrible. Not only was the poem riddled with errors, the boy had attempted a hexameter and then given up halfway and resigned himself to a jumbled form of blank-verse. She kept her face steady.

“I believe your poem can be rendered into something beautiful.”

The boy’s face lit up. “Really?” 

“But,” she said, sternly. “It needs work.”

“As I said, I have no talent.”

“Write from the heart. The words will come.”

The boy thought for a moment ““What if she does not love me?”

“Then you will have to write another poem about your heartache. And hope it is better than the last!”

The boy managed a small smile. Erato placed her shadowy hand on his shoulder. “Write your poem. There is never enough love in the world,” she said. 

He nodded.

“Gods grant you luck in your suit!” She swept out of the dream like the last notes of a melody. 

This is her life. Of course, there are times when she is lonely. Immortality is long, and the lives of poets are short. Erato has lived within so many verses. She has dove down deep in the minds of lovers. She feels the heat and the yearning. Sometimes, she thinks she wants this for herself — hands that are held in the dark, kisses that taste honey. But then she thinks about the pain. Hearts are glass, they shatter and are never the same. Erato shudders. But she reads the poems. She reads them over and over again. Her heart brims over with reflected pain, and love.


	4. Euterpe, muse of song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euterpe sings, and remembers

Euterpe feels a pit in her stomach as she remembers those dinners on Mount Olympus. 

They had stood, the nine of them, in preparation for the first song. They were to entertain the gods, wash away their worries with the purity of their sweet little-girl voices. The hall was filled with the chatter of the immortals trading stories and boasting of their deeds. Zeus’s attention was focused on lapping up his wine, and, in his drunken state, whispering lewd jokes into his cupbearer. The young man laughed nervously, then jumped as he caught sight of Hera’s scowl. Hastily, he filled her cup. She tutted and turned her attention to the nine girls on stage. 

Erato was oblivious and continued to gaze happily around the hall. Calliope’s face was a mask of tranquility. As for herself, Euterpe felt the strength of Hera’s hatred like a blow in the gut. Her knees had become weak. All of a sudden, she felt the jab of Clio’s elbow in her side.

“Stand tall, sister,” Clio murmured. “It is due to her husband’s actions that she despises us. We are not to blame.”

“But he is our father! Look, he does not even acknowledge us,” Euterpe’s whisper came out like a squeak. 

“ _We are not to blame._ ”

At that moment, Euterpe wished she could share her sister’s strength. She sighed.

The musicians began to play. The pretty notes of the melody rose up and filled the hall. And the muses sang. At first, Calliope led them, carrying the tune clear and true. But more and more, it was Euterpe whose voice swelled over the others.

It was a happy song, a simple tune celebrating the beauty of spring. Yet, as Euterpe sang, it turned stranger and sadder. There was a slight quiver in it, like flowers sprouting and dying in the snow. There was a hunger, too, a longing that was as clear as the sky and deep as the wine-dark sea. 

The song ended, the notes faded, the muses stopped and bowed. There was silence in the hall.

Euterpe gazed out onto their audience. Athena was beaming. Hermes’s mouth was hanging open. Apollo’s face was so awash with emotion that she was uncertain as to whether he was about to smile or to burst into tears. Even Hera was aghast, her eyes were glistening. Or perhaps that was only the flickering candlelight. 

Then Euterpe looked to Zeus. And there he was, sitting at the head of the table, slumped over his spilled goblet of ambrosia. In the hush, the only sound echoing through the hall was the dripping of the golden liquid as it fell, drop by drop, onto the cold marble floor. 

As Mnemosyne hustled her daughters away, Euterpe stole another glance over her shoulder at the god — no, the man — that she knew she would never again call her father.


	5. Melpomene, muse of tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melpomene's job is not an easy one.

She is the muse of tragedy, which is a job that must be done, as the world is filled with weeping. If she shirks her duty, there will be no one to bring comfort to the dead — to Antigone in her tomb, to the lost princes of Troy cut down in the battlefield, to the princesses captured in the hollow ships of the conquering army. It was Melpomone who sat unseen by the side of Hecuba, as the once-great queen wept for her lost children. Melpomene’s soul ached, but all that fell from her eyes was a single tear. It was important to ration tears. The battlefield was covered with corpses. 

Her job is to embrace the unloved and the unlovable. She stood by Oedipus as he wandered, blind and penitent. She even held out a comforting hand to Medea, who had been betrayed in love and was so far from home. Later, in her murderous rage, the muse only shook her head and sighed. She had always known what was to come.

Melpomene does not judge, she only understands, only stretches out her hand into the waiting darkness in hopes that someone shall receive it, and be comforted. 

During every play, she stands at the side of the stage. She watches the players act out their tragedies, living and crying and killing and dying. She watches them, over and over again.


	6. Polyhymnia, muse of sacred song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being muse of sacred song is awkward. Polyhymnia wonders how to move forward.

Polyhymnia, the muse of sacred song, gets embarrassed whenever she receives prayers. Poets and musicians call upon her to grant them the words to speak in the language of the gods. She has lived among the gods, and what with their bickering and their affairs and their declarations of war over the allocation of a single apple, she wonders if perhaps the mortals might do better without them. Just an idle thought. She has never said this out loud. Nonetheless, she has been uncomfortable with her role. Even as a child, she would argue with her mother until late in the night. 

“But I don’t feel divine,” she said to Mnemosyne, in one of their many clashes. At the time, Polyhymnia prided herself in being almost as high as her mother’s chest. Sometimes she would stand on her toes, to look taller. 

“You do, my dear. But you have not yet realised it.”

“Then what’s the point? I still have to hear the prayers of so-and-so-priest or so-and-so-nobleman-with-too-much-time because they want to ugh ‘reach a greater understanding with the almighty gods’”

“Yes dear, and it is your job to hear them.”

“But I don’t want to. I feel so stupid just standing there in my silly cloak and veil, elbow resting gracefully on a pillar, while I listen to them blab about how much they believe in the power of the all-powerful Olympians. Plus, most of the mortals who invoke me will just think I’m a hallucination.” 

“Still, that is no excuse to shirk. Your sisters have all taken very well to their roles and I just wish you would do the same.”

“But I —” Polyhymnia felt her voice descend into a petulant whine. She straightened. She had to get her act together, she had to get her mother to hear her out. “I know. I know. I should be doing better. But the thing is… I am certain we are not so different from the mortals.”

At this, Mnemosyne shook her head. “The gulf that separates gods and mortals is as wide as the endless sky.”

As one of the daughters of Uranus and Gaia, born when the universe was young, Mnemosyne had long since made her peace with immortality. And as mother and daughter looked into each other’s eyes, they knew their difference could never be overcome. They stood like this for a long time. 

Mnemosyne was the first to break the silence. “Look, one day, you come to love this duty. But I don’t want to argue about this anymore. It’s getting late.” She smiled sadly, eyes filled with the weight of remembrance. “Go to bed, my darling.” 

Polyhymnia nodded. She was close to tears but she didn’t understand why. “Good night, mother.”

“Good night.”

Years later, Polyhymnia remembers this conversation as the moment she found contentment. No, not contentment, that’s the wrong word. It was something else. 

It is dawn, she steps outside. The air on Mount Parnassus is crisp and pure. Mortals would find it difficult to breathe here. She reaches a ledge and sits down, dangling her feet in a manner that is completely unladylike. Mnemosyne would be annoyed, of course, but this is Polyhymnia’s favourite spot and she is here to watch the sunrise. Already, there is activity down in the valley: shepherds herding their flocks, farmers dragging cartloads of fruit. The children are already up, their laughter echoing across the fields. 

As the sun rises, Polyhymnia smiles at what she sees before her, drinking in the sounds of clattering and speaking and laughing and living. “This,” she says to herself, “This is sacred.”


	7. Terpsichore, muse of dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terpsichore is one with the world.

Terpsichore rarely feels the urge to speak. Why would she? All she needs to do is dance. 

Although she spends most of her time alone, she likes to visit the mortals: to dance at weddings and at altars in worship of the gods. Festivals are her favourite occasions. She loves to feel the pulsing excitement of a quiet town awaking to bustling celebration. 

In a sandy clearing, villagers begin to link hands as the drumming grows lively, the strumming of the lyre rises high and sweet. Drawing in a breath, Terpsichore steps into the circle. With her sandals long since lost, her footfalls are feather-soft. The swing and the step, the winding and the tossing — these are the rhythms that guide her. She spins, arms twisting, heart hammering. All life is dance, she believes. The moment is eternal. 

At last, she becomes aware of the villagers' s awestruck eyes. Staring in wonderment, they break into frantic applause. She has provided quite the spectacle. Turning to each other, they say:

“Who is she?”

“Have you ever seen her before?” 

“Not me, I've never seen anything like that in my life!”

“By the gods, I have never seen anything so beautiful…”

Unseen, Terpsichore makes her exit. She has many villages to visit before the nightfall.


	8. Thalia, muse of comedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thalia and Melpomene have a conversation.

Perhaps Thalia was born with a smile on her face, laughing at the world. This is one possibility. Another is that, like everyone else, she cried. After all, there is nothing closer to laughter than tears. 

One evening, Melpomene knocks on Thalia’s door.

“Thalia? Are you in there?”

“No. I’m out,” says Thalia. She chuckles hearing Melpomene’s groan of exasperation, a sound holding within it a lifetime of listening to bad jokes. A creaking of hinges and a plodding of boots cues her sister’s entrance. As always, Melpomene is holding her tragic mask in her hand. 

Grinning, Thalia picks up her comic mask and places it over her face. “Say, do you know if we need to wash these things?”

“I don’t know.” Her sister’s voice is numb, her expression blank. 

“Rough day?” 

“Always.” There is a pause. Thalia allows her mask to fall to the ground. It bounces. For a while, Melpomene stares at it, then she continues: “In truth it was not so bad. I went to see a play. A tragedy of course, doesn’t make much difference which. I was watching behind the spectators, watching the actors play out the same old story of violence and revenge and endless pain. Then, when the actors removed their masks, bowing, revelling in the cheering of the audience, only I knew that the tragedy would go on. It was out there, unbound by unity of time, place and action — loosed among us.” 

All the mirth has gone out of Thalia’s eyes, and she nods. “Though the play is over, the tragedy always goes on.” 

They sigh. 

“It’s the way of the world, my sister,” says Thalia. “All the geniuses are fools. Politicians care only for their own purses. Heroes ride headlong into the abyss. And people will always die.”

“Then how do you bear it?” 

“Comedy. It can’t erase the darkness but it shines a light on it. And then everything is clear.”

“What does that mean?

“We don’t kill tyrants, only catch them in their underwear.”

Finally, Melpomene laughs, the sound pure and bright. “Tell me about your day,” she says.

“I visited Aristophanes again. He’s working on a new play. It’s called _The Clouds_.”

“ _The Clouds_?” asks Melpomene.

“Yes, _The Clouds_ ,” replies Thalia, nodding seriously. 

“What is it about?”

“Well, for starters, it’s about clouds...”

They both burst into laughter. 

“Well not just clouds,” says Thalia. Here, why don’t I explain what it’s really about..”

The two sisters talk long into the night.


	9. Urania, muse of astronomy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Urania takes her sisters on an outing to witness the wonders of the universe.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here,” says Urania to her sisters. 

“Will this take long?” asks Clio, folding her arms. “I have manuscripts to read.”

“I know, I know you’re all very busy. But it’s going to be a clear night, which means it’s a good night to go on an excursion.”

She looks to her sisters. Euterpe nods encouragingly. Polyhymnia grins. Terpsichore’s eyes gleam with excitement. 

“What? Now? I’m awfully tired,” says Melpomene. Next to her, Thalia squeezes her hand sympathetically. 

Calliope’s face is marked with a small frown between her eyebrows, a sign appearing whenever one of her sisters suggests something reckless. “At night?” she asks.

“Well I think it’s going to be fun,” says Erato, a smile playing on her lips. “After all, it’s getting boring here. What’s the point of immortality if you never do anything a little silly?”

“It’s not silly, Erato. This is for science,” says Urania.

“I was agreeing with you!” retorts Erato, indignant. 

“I know you were. I was only clarifying. Accuracy is important, you know.” 

This garners a nod from Clio. “Well, I suppose we all might learn something. As muses, we should welcome an opportunity to gain enlightenment.”

Thalia rolls her eyes. “Clio, you sound like one of those pompous old men who make speeches in the forum for the sole reason that they are fond of hearing their own voices.”

For a moment, Clio looks as if she is about to say something, but she only waves her hand dismissively. 

It is Melpomene’s quiet voice that breaks the silence. “The stars will be out… I think it’s a good idea.” There is a gravity to her words, pain glimmering behind wonder.

“Well,” says Thalia, looking thoughtful. “I suppose it might be an interesting diversion.”

“Calliope?” Urania looks to her sister. Calliope is the eldest and her approval is vital. 

Finally she says, “I don’t see what harm it could do.” And she flashes a rare smile. It is a smile that looks the way the sun feels on skin — light and healing and breath — combined with the essence of every happy ending that was ever sung. Calliope appears radiant. She is, after all, a goddess. 

As the night quickens, they all file out of the door: Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia… and Urania leads them. Lanterns in their hands, they climb to the peak of Mount Parnassus. There, they sit down, jostling each other and giggling, leaning back into the soft, cool grass.

The stars are coming out. 

Urania points up at the sky. “Look. There is the Great Bear. And there is the Little Bear.”

“Isn’t he — Little Bear I mean — our brother?” asks Polyhymnia. 

“Ah yes, poor Arcas. And poor Callisto, she never asked for anything of it. Typical Zeus — he could have saved them but instead he made them stars,” says Euterpe, sighing.

“Do you think they’re happy, as stars?” Erato wonders aloud.

“We cannot say. For they are not stars at all now, but stories,” says Calliope. The others frown at this remark but Calliope does not see. It is a dark night.

At this point, Urania decides to speak up. “There are other worlds out there.”

“What do you mean,” asks Polyhymnia. “This is the world… we are in it.”

And Urania begins to speak again, her voice tremulous with wonder, “I suppose you all might think me half-mad, but the Earth, Gaia, is just one planet. This is a fact. I don’t know why or how, but it is the truth. And out there, oh, there are many planets. They orbit around burning masses of gas: that is what stars are. The sun, Helios, is a star—”

“But this is impossible!” interrupts Euterpe. “What about the gods?”

It is Thalia who shrugs and says, “We’re still here, aren’t we? It must be possible.”

Clio lifts her chin in curiosity, “How do you know all this, Urania?”

“I am the muse of astronomy,” says Urania. “When I ask, the universe answers. It speaks in riddles, in dreams, and in sudden silences. It speaks in numbers, in calculations that stretch on into infinity. It speaks the truth into the void and I catch the knowledge in my hands. And perhaps there is still more. This universe is stingy with its secrets. As I listen, I will learn. There are forces of which even the gods remain ignorant. As for the mortals, they will not know of any of this for centuries to come. In truth, I do not know if the universe will ever yield all its secrets to them, but they will be given glimpses. They will build devices that will let them see further into the heavens than can be seen with the eye or touched with the mind. The future awaits us, sisters.”

The muses are quiet for a while. Then Calliope speaks, “Will there be a place for us, in the times ahead?” 

Urania smiles at her, “I think... we must be there to guide humanity. All of us. People will always need stories — true stories. And that is what we are.”

They look up at the constellations now, at the bears, at Orion the hunter, at Pegasus, and at the sea goat, and at the crab Hera honoured for pinching the heel of their half-brother Heracles. They stare into infinite space of myth and history. The sky is black. The stars are shining lights, they are exploding orbs of plasma powered by the thermonuclear reactions of the hydrogen and helium that burn in their cores. 

Urania closes her eyes, knowing that the stars are fixed forever in her mind. _There is so much out there._


End file.
